


The Mysterious Disappearance of The Last Judgement

by Thyra279



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1960s Detective Drama, A tiny bit of period-typical homophobia, A tiny bit of period-typical sexism, Alcohol, And they can't really decide if they get along or not, Art Crime, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bickering, But they have fun along the way, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Detective CHIEF Inspector Fell, Detective Inspector Fell, Flirting, Human AU, It's the 60s, M/M, Mystery, Smoking, Thief Crowley (Good Omens), Think James Bond meets Conan Doyle meets Catch Me If You Can meets Austin Powers, When I say Drama I mean it in the softest fashion, master criminal Crowley, obviously, soft crime, thank you very much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28019565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyra279/pseuds/Thyra279
Summary: "Mr. Crowley." The criminal mastermind in question appeared through the low, thick haze of smoke and flopped down on the forgiving red velour bench opposite Aziraphale, all lanky limbs and lazy attitude as per usual.He'd dressed those with a rather becoming tight black turtleneck today. And those ridiculous little round sunglasses he'd taken to wearing recently, framed by his fringe and shoulder-length hair.Aziraphale refused to look anywhere but at his own reflection in them."Mr. Fell." Mr. Crowley teased the bottom olive off his cocktail stick with an entirely excessive amount of teeth and tongue."That's Detective Chief Inspector Fell to you, Mr. Crowley."Much to Aziraphale's rapt consternation, the scoundrel had the audacity to grin at him, showing off the olive caught between his irregular teeth. He took the time to chew and swallow it before drawling on. "I see you've turned up on your own today. No little minions to accompany you. Or big buff henchmen. Unfortunately."A very soft take on a 60s-style crime mystery. 70% flirting, 29% bickering and 2% crime.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35
Collections: GO-Events Good Omens Mystery AU Event Works





	The Mysterious Disappearance of The Last Judgement

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the GO Events server Mystery AU event! It is set in 1960s London, will be three chapters long and is a very soft take on a 60s-style crime mystery. 70% flirting, 29% bickering and 2% crime.

Big, fat raindrops threw themselves on to London Liverpool Street – the station, the road of the same name, and everything in-between, including the massive redbrick Great Eastern Hotel which dominated that space. It was nothing new; the rain had been dominating the entirety of 1966 so far, and the street which had at first taken on a magical dimension with the aquatic reflections of the city's many neon lights now seemed as tired by the rain as its residents, strewn with soggy leaves and soaked cigarette butts, peppered with wet and worn-down people.

One of them was a chief inspector who exited the van he'd been inspecting and made his way to the hotel as fast as possible, hunched up under his umbrella. He naturally removed his damp grey fedora as soon as he stepped into the glitzy lobby and unnaturally removed his sodden coat too, revealing tired blond curls and a strong and well-built middle-aged detective.

A quick trip to the men's room and much perkier blond curls emerged alongside a happier, less wet man. He made his way to the hotel bar as per usual, ordered an indulgently fruity cocktail – they couldn't _see_ him, after all – and settled down in one of the nicer booths in the half-deserted bar to wait.

"He is nowhere to be seen," he muttered to no one in the vicinity, putting his wet umbrella on the floor by the cubicle before folding his beloved coat across the back of the booth with great care and spreading out his documents, pen, drink and hat on the table to look busy. Aziraphale's heart beat against his throat, surprisingly violently for a man who did this sort of thing all the time.

He was nowhere to be seen for another five minutes. 

He left it just long enough for the detective to attempt to start reading his notes before he made himself visible, sauntering through the bar's dim, thick haze of smoke with a drink which seemed to consist mainly of a rock of ice and an orange peel, garnished by two bright red cocktail cherries.

Aziraphale only glanced at him. "Mr. Crowley."

The master criminal flopped down on the forgiving red velour of the opposite bench, all lanky limbs and lazy attitude as per usual.

He'd dressed those with a rather becoming tight black turtleneck today. And those ridiculous little round sunglasses he'd taken to wearing recently.

Aziraphale refused to look anywhere but at his own reflection in them.

"Mr. Fell." Mr. Crowley teased the bottom cherry off his cocktail stick with an entirely excessive amount of teeth and tongue.

"That's Detective Chief Inspector Fell to you, Mr. Crowley."

Much to Aziraphale's rapt consternation, the scoundrel had the audacity to grin at him, showing off the cherry caught between his irregular teeth instead. He took the time to chew and swallow it. "I see you've turned up on your own today, Fell. No little minions to accompany you. Or big buff henchmen. Unfortunately."

Aziraphale stared daggers at his own reflection. It elicited no greater response than the lethargic raising of a singular eyebrow. "Henchmen are much more your side's type of thing, I would have thought. Minions too, for that matter. Although I feel obliged to inform you that we do have a car waiting just out there."

He gave a sideways nod at the windows which showed a car with lights flashing, almost as if it had been parked just there for effect. The lights lit up the rainy street outside in a harsh unrelenting blue, quite obviously and quite on purpose, taking away suspicion from the dark van a little further down the road. "It is full of highly armed police officers, of course."

The red-headed menace didn't so much as glance away from him. "Of course. And you're all wired up, I s'pose?"

"…Yes."

"Pity." He crossed his long legs and sighed. "Might've had a great many exciting things to tell you otherwise, Mr. Fell."

The good Chief Inspector threw him his very best pout. "You know nothing, I assume? As per usual?"

"Don't be unkind now, Mr. Fell, doesn't suit you," he drawled. "I know a great many things."

"And what exactly, pray tell, do you know of _The Great Day of His Wrath_?"

"Oh, it's gonna be terrible," Mr. Crowley grinned, a tad more animated. "Or so I'm told. Hell on earth. The seas boiling, that kind of thing, the whole shebang. And then the worst bit of it." He sat up a bit – to be more accurate, he slouched slightly less, sprawled out as if he owned the booth. "God wins, of course – nice set up They've got going there by the way, in my world we call that match-fixing. And _then_. The worst bit. Salvation _._ " He added a lackadaisical jazz hand to the mix. "Eternal boredom."

"Yes, thank you, I don't think we need to worry about that _quite_ yet," Aziraphale muttered, shuffling through the documents he'd laid out carefully while he waited. The bottom right corner of all of them was soaked through, besmudged by the spills left over by whichever well-to-do drunks had sat here earlier. He blamed Crowley somehow, thought he _could_ admit to himself that that was just the tiniest bit irrational. "You least of all."

"What's that?"

"Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. Please do not distract me with idle theological chatter, Mr. Crowley, no one has the time for that these days - I am, of course, speaking of the painting _The Great Day of His Wrath_. As you _well_ know."

"Ah." Mr. Crowley leant back again, lighting up a cigarette. He took a deep, luxurious drag before continuing, blowing his smoke up towards the ceiling. His long, elegant neck with that prominent Adam's apple of his would have been on display if it weren't for the turtleneck, Aziraphale noted with int- irritation.

"You know, now that you mention it, I think I _do_ know it. Painted by John Martin between 1853 and '55. The third and final part of his _Judgement_ Series. Bought by the Tate back in '45. Oil, hangs in room 117." He added a bit of a shirk, dipping his head towards Aziraphale again. "Bit gloomy if you ask me."

Aziraphale took a moment to sip his mai tai. The slice of pineapple hit his cheek, leaving behind a wet and sticky sweetness. He didn't flinch. He'd tried much worse. "No."

"No?"

"No.

"Oh."

"It was painted between 1851 and 1853. Don't get sloppy now, Mr. Crowley."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He propped his feet up on the bench next to Aziraphale to the latter's great consternation, lying down as much as sitting by now. "Right on all other counts, then."

"No."

"Oh?"

Aziraphale sat up a bit in a counterattack, put a bit of welly into his delivery, a bit of drama. He folded his hands on the table, elbows off it still, naturally. Paid close attention to his adversary's reaction. "As of Wednesday night at 1900 hours, Mr. Crowley, _His Wrath_ can no longer be found in room 117 of the Tate."

"Oh." He didn't look the tiniest bit surprised or bothered. In fact there was the edge of a smirk on his thin lips, the faintest raising of the deep lines around his mouth, a faint trace of amusement in his eyebrow above those impenetrable black orbs. "His Wrath is all around again, then."

"It is nowhere to be found, Mr. Crowley."

"I'd disagree. Just look at the state of the world."

"The painting is gone in its entirety, practically vanished off the face of the earth. No one saw or heard a single thing."

There was an infuriating melodic playfulness to his tone, a smirk which only grew wider. "Pretty impressive job then, don't you think, Mr. Fell?"

"Not quite, Mr. Crowley." The smirk was slowly replaced by the tiniest tension in his jaw, by the smallest worry in those same fascinating lines of his face and forehead. Aziraphale ignored the undeniable fact that he felt guilty, quenched it with another sip of his cocktail. "Three things were left behind by the _absolute villain_ who decided to steal the painting, you see. Three delicious, _scrumptious_ clues for my side."

"Hnnngk."

"Indeed."

"What, erh. What were they?"

"I'm afraid I cannot disclose that information at present. Particularly not to our prime suspect."

"Gosh, am I really? What an honour," he sniffed. "What's this, the twentieth time or something you've suspected me of art redistribution?"

"This is the twenty-third time we've had cause to question you vis-a-vis art _theft_ , Mr. Crowley."

He'd perked right back up, the scoundrel, burst into a toothy grin. "And how many times have you managed to pin one on me, _Detective Chief Inspector_?"

"…That is inconsequential to the current investigation."

"Commiserations, Fell." He had the audacity to sit up and clink his boring little glass on Aziraphale's festive cocktail. It spilt a little. "You'll get me one day, I'm sure." He added in an eyebrow double-raise, which Aziraphale found quite unprofessional.

"…Do you know anything of the painting's disappearance, Mr. Crowley? Anything at all."

"Nuh-uh." He crossed his arms, still grinning. "'Fraid not. Nope."

Aziraphale looked at him for a moment, considering his options. The best approach to squeeze out a response, get in some small victory.

…And decided, after careful and surgical examination of the situation, to lean forward and have a drink of his mai tai, sucking on the fancy plastic straw _quite_ innocently, eyes fixed on his adversary's, well away from the actual eyes of the law.

Apart from his own, of course.

His colleagues needn't know. They had never understood the finer arts of his interrogation techniques.

Crowley's face dropped, lost every ounce of performance for a moment, blank like a – well like a canvas. "Nrgk."

Aziraphale dabbed at his mouth with a red paper napkin, mostly to hide his self-satisfaction. "I'm sorry, Mr. Crowley, what was that? Please do speak up. For the benefit of the covert listening device, you know."

"Nah."

"Nothing _at all_ you might help me with?" Aziraphale trailed, thumbing off the residual drop of cocktail from the end of his straw.

"Erh…" He moved his mouth about a big before he managed to connect its sound. Aziraphale sucked the drop off his thumb. "Alright, alright, _fine._ Here's what I know. 's worth a lot of quid in the right hands. Something like 80,000 quid – I've heard, obviously."

"Obviously."

" _Obviously_ ," he aped, in Aziraphale's posh accent. "It's also famous enough that, if it _has_ been taken – and not by me, of course not by me – the job will have been done for someone specific. You don't just go… appropriate that kind of thing for fun. Not well-known enough for just any old wanna-be art collector to go for. Wouldn't be worth the risk."

"And you would know, Mr. Crowley."

"Not in the slightest. I am the picture of innocence, pure as the baby Jesus."

"And do you have an alibi?"

"Course I do," he grinned. "Got a whole bunch of them. When did you say it happened?"

"1900 hours."

"Let's see." He brought out a folded brown envelope from his back pocket. It was folded tight, almost neatly, on account of the space it had been allowed, was nice and warm when he handed it over. Aziraphale tore it open with a curious glance at him.

It was a series of very nearly identical polaroids of Anthony J. Crowley, standing just to the side of a newsstand on Piccadilly Square with his arm around the newsagent, a young-ish woman in extensive make-up. Behind them was the familiar coca cola advert, and just under it-

"You'll notice the clock behind us, of course."

-was the large neon clock showing the time - 18:15 on the top one. The clockface changed by 15 minutes for every subsequent photograph, the people around them too. The only thing that changed on the criminal's face was his wider and wider grin while the poor newspaper lady looked increasingly annoyed, though she stood sullenly behind her stand on every single image past 19:00. 

"Ah, but Mr. Crowley, this could be any day of the wee-"

"N-"

"- _Newspapers_!" Aziraphale cut in, holding up the 19:15 photograph to scrutinise it. The little newspapers on the stand did indeed chirp out _Wednesday the 27 July 1966_ , every single one of them. The little smudgey traitors. The last photograph showed Crowley with a grin so wide it nearly outcompeted the neon sides behind him, holding up a newspaper, pointing at the date at 21:00.

"Well you _obviously_ did it."

"I _obviously_ didn't."

"Why else would one _ever_ tolerate the crowds of Piccadilly Square for three hours to make such an obvious alibi."

"Fun, Mr. Fell - though perhaps that's not your thing. A sense of community. The thrill of fresh air," he breezed.

He received the most withering glare in return. "...And the woman?"

"Will be there for questioning like she's been there every day for the past three years. She seemed very nice, good for a chat. At first."

Aziraphale looked back at the photographs, grew quiet in his studies of them. When he looked up again, he was frowning quite seriously, intent on his adversary's face. "Who took the photographs?"

"Ah." He grew a little softer, put his hand on the table. Picked up his drink. "An acquaintance of mine. They go by Beelzebub and a great many other things. Perhaps you've heard of them?"

"Oh, are they back out of prison, then?"

"Mmm."

"Hardly the most innocent of friends, Mr. Crowley. Will they agree that they were there, support your alibi?"

"Sure, yup. If you can find them."

"This is all _most_ unusual. Obviously a front. You were _obviously_ involved, even if-"

"Innocent until proven guilty, Inspector," said the biggest, wiliest art thief who'd never been caught. Not since a string of petty burglaries in his youth, despite the best efforts of first Oxford Police, then their American colleagues, and now, for the past decade and a half, Scotland Yard. "D'you see any way I could've been twenty minutes away at the Tate while also having a lovely touristy time on Piccadilly Square? That lady had a lot of interesting ideas, Fell, let me tell you, and a whole other job too that sounded very exciting indeed. I'm sure she'll tell you all about it when you question her. And confirm that I was there. I think you came up, even."

Aziraphale huffed and patted himself down in frustration as he usually wound up doing in his eternal search for his snuff box. His search yielded no success. He looked up, forlorn, forgetting himself and catching the eye of his great adversary, who offered the faintest of pouts in sympathy.

Oh, _his coat_. Of course. He took it off so rarely this time of year he'd forgotten that he'd removed it at all. It had been a present to him from someone very dear, nearly thirty years ago now. It felt like it had barely left him this summer, in the terrible wet and wind of this winter, spring and summer.

The most dashing criminal the Great Kingdom of Britannia had ever managed to spew sat up to hand him the coat from the back of their cubicle.

"Thank you," Aziraphale spat.

The villain shrugged and sat back down, though his lip was in danger of turning upwards. It was a much more genuine thing than Aziraphale would have liked, looked so very different from his countless smir-

Aziraphale would not let it distract him. He was at work, a professional through-and-through. "We will win, of course."

The villain let the smile settle in. Had anyone been watching, it may even look just the teeniest, tiniest bit affectionate. "Oh come on, Inspector. You really believe that?"

"That is Chief Inspector to you, _Mr_. Crowley. And naturally. Good always triumphs over evil."

"'Course," he sniffed. He looked almost sad, watching Aziraphale take out his snuffbox with his wry little smile. "Yeah. Sure it will."

The winged silver snuffbox, which unlike the coat or its wearer really was from the previous century, opened with a friendly squawk to reveal its unusual cargo. Perfectly reputable fingers with just the hint of a manicure picked out a cigarette and matchstick with great care, popped the former in between his lips. It danced along when he spoke, clinging to his lip as he lit the match, then the fag, cupping the little fledgling flame from the harsh world outside. "Soon. Very soon indeed."

"Mmnh. Yeah." The criminal had a long, shallow sip of his old-fashioned, staring into it long after it left his lips, leaving open the perfect opportunity for Aziraphale to observe him. It had left a little droplet on the bottom lip there, right at the corner of his mouth.

Eventually he sighed, downed the rest of the old-fashioned in one quick tipping back of his head, and slammed it down on the table. "Afraid I can't help you with _His Wrath_ , Fell. 's not mine, if I ever _did_ do an art job like that, you and I both know I wouldn't be stupid enough to leave behind bloody clues like an amateur."

"You cannot expect me to believe that you just happened to capture an entire series of photographs documenting your continued harassment of a poor innocent newspaper lady at the exact time that the painting was stolen."

"Well," Crowley shrugged. "If you manage to prove anything to the contrary, I'm sure I'll hear about it."

He slithered along the fake red velour seat, pushed off and somehow managed to propel his long, lean body off the seat like a slinky on some of that lovely cocaine from evidence room 6.

His agility never failed to astonish, nor his quick and surprising bursts of energy amidst his lethargic demeanour. Aziraphale found himself quite distracted.

"Expect I'll see you again soon enough, Fell. Ciao."

"Uhm. Yes. Absolutely," he mumbled, watching his adversary slink off in his very tight black trousers. "Mind how you go."

It was a move executed entirely on purpose of course, as Aziraphale discovered once he'd paid for their drinks, gathered up his documents and briefcase and put his hat and coat back on in the marble lobby, eyeing the never-ending rain with great displeasure.

The lanky bastard had stolen his umbrella.

***

It was a rather sullen and soggy Detective Chief Inspector who waved at the ordinary police car before it took off and knocked on the back of the dark blue Morris LD surveillance van a minute later. His team of three met him with varying degrees of soothing and sympathetic murmurs, young Detective Sergeant Pulsifer with a more practical cup of tea, which he for once managed not to spill over any of the recording equipment.

He'd always been Aziraphale's favourite, had a very good head on him. Aziraphale handed him the envelope with the photographs. "Did everything come out clearly?"

"Yeah, it _did_ , you know!" The young man sounded almost giddy and to be fair to him, that _was_ a highly unusual occurrence. He removed his headphones, as did everyone else, and rewound the tapes for Aziraphale's benefit. 

They started off with a scratchy " _One, two, three, testing_ " in Aziraphale's sharp enunciation and a deep sigh from his second team member, D/Sgt. Device. " _Sir, you are allowed to be a little more creative than that, you know._ "

" _There is nothing wrong with following proper procedure, Ms. Device, as you will do well to learn. Is that not so, Mr. Pulsifer?_ "

" _Er, yeah, sure_. _I mean, what you say doesn't really matter as long as the equipment works."_ Pulsifer's following chuckle and his superior's subsequent tut were mercilessly not picked up by the bug, defeated by the scratching sounds of Velcro fastenings being opened and closed around Aziraphale's naked chest. " _You're good to go, Sir. You know, will you ever tell us the story of how you ended up with that ring on your-_ "

"Ah, yes, this clearly works just fine," the real-life DCI cut in, taking off his headphones. "I know the rest, I was just there. Did you all hear the entire conv- interrogation?"

"Oh aye," the team's third member cut in from the driver's seat in suspiciously unplaceable Scott-ish. "Thrillin' stuff. Ye know I don't trust those machines with a single inch – not a single one, I tell yer, it's witchcraft if ye ask me – but they are awfully convenient fer listening in on the crrriminal underwerld, fer teasing out the scum o' the earth, witches and pansi-"

"Yes, _thank you_ , sergeant. Just drive the car, please." He might not have much to contribute in terms of strategy, civility or sanity, and Aziraphale would rather have competed nude in this weekend's world cup finals – and he loathed football – than let Shadwell in front of suspects, victims or anyone else human they encountered in their job, but Shadwell did bring a great deal of brawn, muscle and, well, rugged good looks to the force. With experience from that same criminal underworld and an actual talent for electronics, he had proven invaluable to Aziraphale time and time again.

Aziraphale would always insist that both Newton and Anathema accompanied him when assistance was needed, and though he knew that Newton hated leaving behind his beloved machine, he was well aware that spending time with Anathema Device would always come before the recording device for the besotted young man. The two had developed an excellent good cop/bad cop routine over the past two years too, and he felt confident that the both of them would make it very far indeed within the force.

As for young Shadwell, well. He seemed very happy staying in the van whenever he could, making notes and browsing whichever local newspapers he could get his hands on and tending to the listening device whenever Pulsifer couldn't – which Aziraphale made sure was most of the time. Aziraphale suspected Shadwell would be happy to stay in the van for all of eternity if he were allowed, he thrived alone and in crammed conditions, seemed to have picked up the habit in gaol.

"So another bulletproof alibi, then?" Pulsifer asked, shuffling through the photos.

"It would seem so, yes," Aziraphale sighed. He removed his coat to get to the wire and felt an unexpected crinkling in its pocket as he folded it neatly on the bench running down the sides of the van. It was soon accompanied by his undershirt, his shirt and then by the bug, whose little red light had been switched off. He moved it slightly to put his undershirt and shirt back on. "I expect our higher-ups are awaiting a full debrief?" 

"Kinda." Device handed him his ascot, watched him retie it with a wry little knowing smile that irritated him today. "You're seeing Angela Michaels tomorrow, sir, at ten o'clock; the Superintendent informed me he'll be out playing golf with the Minister for Justice. He requested a meeting with her on your behalf instead."

"Ah, well, Gabriel is doing us all a great service in being off-duty today. The Kingdom is all the safer for it, I'm sure." She smiled a little wider and much less irritatingly at his quip, handed him his coat while she watched him closely, most likely picking up on his slight hesitation when she informed him of the change. It would seem this embarrassing string of unsolved art cases had finally made it all the way to the top. It wasn't a place Aziraphale was used to, he usually stayed well under the radar.

He took the coat off her quickly. "The Commissioner herself, is that so? I think perhaps you ought to accompany me, then, Sergeant Device. I should like to introduce you."

"Because we're both women?"

"Well - yes. It might be an opportunity for you."

"That's discrimination, sir."

"It may be so, Anathema. Though even if it is, I highly recommend you accept this as rather more positive discrimination, a balance to all the other drivel you endure. I know you admire her very much, don't deny it."

She watched him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright, then. Sure."

With the coat back in place, the hat in his hands, Aziraphale nodded at each of his three minions in turn. He handed the bug back to Pulsifer.

"I shall see you all tomorrow then, back at the Yard. Miss Device, meet me in my office at 9 am sharp, please, so that we may lay a strategy."

She nodded curtly at him as Shadwell brought the van to a screeching halt outside Aziraphale's run-down Soho flat. Pulsifer tossed the rest of his boss's lukewarm tea out when the back door opened up, gave a cheery little wave to Aziraphale, who stepped down off it again, into the slight drizzle the rain had mercifully settled on tonight. "Have a good night, sir."

They sped off again as soon as Aziraphale slammed shut the door. He watched them go, saw them round the nearest corner with a screech of the tyres and a flash of blue lights that made the police van camouflage entirely pointless.

Only then did he chance a look around and dive into his pocket.

He found, as he'd deduced, a coarse scrap of paper with a few words scribbled onto it in even coarser, warmly familiar handwriting.

_Meet me at the 4th alterNative reNdezvoUs 2Nite_

_BriNg yoUr haNdcuffs._

_Love yoU._

He turned it over.

_ObvioUsly_


End file.
